When Corinne arrived I was in no condition to meet anyone. I was sitting on a chair in my sublet on Aldersgate Street, central London: an epic Hail Mary. Outside it was leaning down. This was mid to late May. Colder than other times of the year. The wide sash window to my right looks out onto a street, or to be precise, the outer wall of a neighboring building. Water was flowing down the black brick. Splatter is coming out from the gutter pipe. This was the moment when Corinne chose to make her presence felt, and I judged her on that basis. He walked in the front door like he owned the place. He was taller than me, and lanky, and that’s saying something, given that I myself had difficulty maintaining my posture on my chair: the hard-plastic shell, cracked with other red, bleak tones, thought-out as it was for people half my height. I cork-screwed my lower legs, which gave me no relief. How could this be: Corinne positioned herself directly in front of me, leaving craters on the floor: the gray marbled linoleum tiling, which I guessed, had been laid in the sixties, having survived wave after wave of gentrification.
I violated common etiquette: I invited her to sit in the empty chair across from me, like at an open house.
He couldn’t possibly do that, Korine said. There was a danger of his chest moving. He felt sad when he sat in one position for too long. He would prefer to lie on the sofa. He had fallen in love with it: its teak frame, the green leather cushions, the incisions where the wounds used to be.
Please, I insisted. Chair. I was trying to stop him. Shows what I knew.
He obliged reluctantly. Sitting there with his legs crossed, arms wrapped around his torso, it took a few moments for me to believe it as I fell upon myself. According to an estimate, he was around the age of forties. Young looking, if I took myself as a benchmark. Her hair was dark brown, not like mine, wavy and a little too long. My ordinary eyes, they were looking back at me. He wore a novelty T-shirt, the less said about it the better, and pajamas. Not to mention his sliders: Why, this season. I thought that if we were ever seen together we would be a bad influence on each other.
‘Louise,’ I said by way of introduction. ‘Aubrey Lewis.’ Former actor whose career came to naught, I said no. I have not moved forward from the husband who lost his wife and later lost himself.
‘Lindsay Corinne,’ he said. ‘Pleasure meeting you.’ Then he said that he was feeling cold.
What did he want to say to me? Didn’t we all? I showed her the cream colored tracksuit I was wearing, the mismatched top I wore to protect my pelvic girdle and keep warm. A musculoskeletal vulnerability, I explained, perhaps to show him that it could be done: endure the conditions. I went so far as to display my shoes: brown Oxford shoes, strangely puffy, cushioned, even, as if the leather had been soaked to swell. I didn’t know who made such things. What kind of factory? What a sweatshop, it was unimaginable.
‘Can we turn the heating on,’ Corinne said. At this speed his clothes will never dry.
‘no I said. It was spring. Communal heating was turned off.
I learned that Corinne was unable to tolerate her discomfort even for a minute. He got up from his chair, which was an undertaking. Nothing was simple with him. She set the crowded coat near the door, planning to layer up.
Even after more than two years in my sub-tenancy, I had yet to approach the various pieces of outerwear stored there. They were not mine. Hardly anything happened in the flat. The paperback with the blue-and-light gray cover on the table in front of me: I think that’s what happened. There were also cardboard boxes next to the sofa. I never unpacked them. The flat itself, its fittings and furniture, the greater part of its contents, bore no relation to me or to the life I had led before coming here: that is, the charm. Why had I left the place more or less the same as I had found it? Some concessions: My Equity trade union card at the window. I was an active member once, that was before. Kumari Burman’s print of a neon-lit tiger with bloated stickers of bindis and animal astronauts, a gift from my wife, which I had removed from its frame and mounted on the naked wall. In an otherwise impersonal environment, I had learned to appreciate these. Meanwhile Corinne picked up one of the many available tweed overcoats, a gray herringbone, floor-length, and inspected it. The way he dismissed it. Contempt. Without giving it a second thought he dropped it on the floor. This time he took out a similar dress, which was waist-length: he seemed to be fascinated by it. One maybe. Still, he felt there was something better out there for him. Optimism. Jump-in-your-face attitude and complete lack of self-awareness: I learned a lot about Corinne by watching her process. He threw this latest coat over his shoulder and dug deeper. As he continued to mess with the historical arrangement I felt my throat closing in on the smell: damp lanolin, rotting mineral oil, some blueberries, it was all there. Corinne found a scratchy wax jacket, olive, with a corduroy collar. He tried on this. The sleeves were too short. He took it off. Returned to the waist-length tweed coat, square cut and wore it. This worked better in terms of sleeve length, but down the torso it was too short. Still he kept it going. He proceeded to wear a wax jacket over it. I closed my eyes and counted down from ten. five. Three. what now? Corinne, in double layers, was going through one of the cardboard boxes by the side of the sofa. She chose a Christmas angel from among all the things and placed it on the table. Made of brightly colored foil, made of the thinnest sheet metal, it was blowing its trumpet in Corrin’s direction. Naturally, she turned her back to me: I was on the sharp edges of her wings, this made me feel humiliated.
The turquoise and brown vase that my wife loved and I disliked? Corinne held him. He placed that also on the table.
‘What are you doing,’ I said, meaning don’t do that.
Corinne declares that it is spiritually cold here.
Naked and unnatural. He was doing it right.
Old Rattler: Not so. Possibly made of lead, I used to doom. Christmas is killing us, I used to declare every year. Not Christmas, but cancer took Laurie’s life. This current spring was also beginning to look increasingly dangerous.
If Corinne noticed I couldn’t have looked happier: she raised her hands, okay, and closed the box. He promised to stay. But he left what he took out of the box OutsideWhich also includes an angel with a trumpet. I imagined I heard its silly fanfare.
it was crazy. By which I meant, all of it. It began to dawn on me that none of this – least of all Corrine – was actually real. Why would anyone be here: there never was, that was the whole point. Probably, I was seeing things. Eventually I had completely lost my mind: it was a matter of time. I was having, what they call, a delusional episode. This shall pass: and by this I mean quickly.
I’ll close my eyes and when I open them again, Corinne will soon be gone. Never to be seen or heard from again. I would remove the decorum that I had to accept, while I had reclaimed myself, temporarily, not with it. I would put the whole matter down as one of those things. It wasn’t that I didn’t know why it was happening: contrary to my better knowledge, I met director Fran Howe yesterday. Why go? Why do this to me? A particularly cruel form of optimism, that was the reason. Irrational hold on to the possibility of withdrawal, if that were the word and if no one noticed you would retire in the first place. Howe claims she wanted me, I let it affect me. He thrust that paperback on me too. If I had accepted what I already knew, which was that my acting career was over, and so was I, Aubrey Lewis, then Lindsey Korine would never have existed.
Here we go, I thought as I closed my eyes. Breathe, like Laurie taught me. In. Outside. Again, in, out. When I look he will be gone.
Okay no. He was still here. Making the most of the sofa, as it were. Lying on his side, head resting on his elbow. His legs were sticking out of his head. Uneasily, he turned onto his back – a feat, given his double layers – crossing his arms behind his head.
This is also not good: He sat up again. The elasticity of the cushioning was tested. Made myself at home.
I will go to the bathroom and sprinkle some water on my face and quickly find him and come back. I got up and went out of the room. I pulled the bathroom switch and the lights came on. so far so good. I looked at myself in the mirror, then at myself: It was de-silvering at an alarming rate. Back to myself: My eye was a little sore from the wear and tear. My left eyelid was swollen. Other than that, no different from yesterday or the day after. I washed in the sink: hands, face. I decided to wash the towel later. Personal hygiene is very important. Regular things. General things. I straightened my track top. Corrected Tuck: I took assurance from him.
I remember the day I stepped out in a tracksuit. This, exactly a year ago. One and a half years after leaving acting. Two years after Laurie’s death. That day, the bathroom mirror stopped working for me: I couldn’t tell who was reflecting back at me. The jeans I wore didn’t even once consider how much I hated them. Non-descript shirt. Even the belt. Especially the belt. One comforting fact: I had already taken the trainers with Ann off. I found them repellent. There was a belt to go ahead. It could not be removed quickly. Jeans down too. Kicked them into a corner, right over my foot. Then shirt. End it. Some hesitation: can I save the vest? Any forgiving qualities? Grey, first white. Washed a thousand times. Did it feel right? No, vest down. I pulled it over my head and threw it on the pile of rejected materials in the corner. I consulted the mirror again. A light long body in underpants and, what is that, sports socks. Stop with sports socks. Hair, this is where the pins came from. I had found hairpins in the bathroom cabinet the day before: Kirby grips to be exact. I assumed the original tenant had a girlfriend. Women’s company. I pulled my lapel to the side, then back. Used a pin to fix it. And second. A third and a fourth. better. Quite good actually. After that I went to the bedroom. Checked out various clothes that the original tenant, or sub-lessee, had left in the wardrobe. I chose a cream colored track top as soon as I saw it. Not sorry: it chose me. Beige bottoms, not matching, but close enough: I saw the possibility of combining these different items. I chose oxfords for their soft leather, unaware of their disadvantages, including lack of ankle support: which was not a problem then, but has become a problem now.
Final check in the mirror: Yes. a relief. I looked like someone I could look up to. A stranger: The best I could hope for. Long way to say it, I knew what a difference a new set of clothes could make. I say this in defense of Corinne.
When I returned to the living room, he was still there. Certainly, unmistakably still there. In league with the Christmas angel, ushering in the season of spring.
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From As if by Isabelle Weidner. Used with permission of the publisher, Farrar, Starous & Giroux. Copyright © 2026 by Isabelle Weidner.
